


On the Last Day

by tirsynni



Category: Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-08
Updated: 2011-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-19 05:30:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tirsynni/pseuds/tirsynni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Dresden had fought his last fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Last Day

A/N: Written for the [](http://dresden-kink.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**dresden_kink**](http://dresden-kink.dreamwidth.org/) 

 

  
The cement creaked under me like an old house settling, maybe this time settling itself into the earth. Heat rose in waves from the pavement, making the moonlight waver and dance. Patches of the cement glistened, half-melted by fire spells. Other patches shone dull red, the undeterred moonlight reflecting off drying blood. The streetlights rested on their sides like fallen soldiers, some broken beyond recognition, others chopped off at the knees.

I didn’t know if my friends had joined the ranks of those fallen soldiers. I only knew no one answered when I wheezed their names, blood splattering wetly on my lips. If they had, I guessed I would join them soon enough.

I sprawled against the remains of a building like a broken toy. For all of the licking I had taken, I had actually thought I might survive.

A broken pipe from the building protruded from my left side, just above my hipbone. The last explosion had taken both the building and me out. I guessed – I glanced woozily upward – that Danny’s Dollar Store had taken that last hit personally.

Killed by a dollar store. They should put that on my tombstone, too, right under “He died doing the right thing.”

I closed my eyes and coughed quietly. Yeah. Fucking fitting.

It was…easy to drift off. If I did that, even the pain in my side settled to a low burn.

With my eyes closed and the sound of my heartbeat thudding defiantly in my ears, I didn’t notice him until cold metal pressed against my forehead. I opened my eyes and stared into the color of old dollar bills.

John Marcone didn’t say anything; the pistol in his hand said enough.

I thought about it for a second, and then I closed my eyes again.

“Aren’t you going to fight me, Mr. Dresden?” he asked quietly. Not a single emotion colored his voice.

I still had enough sense left not to shrug. “Aren’t you going to shoot me, John?” I retorted, but I was too tired to put any emotion in it, either. Maybe he was tired, too. We had fought before this, fought face-to-face at fucking last, and then the remains of the Black Council had ruined it by wanting their final showdown, too.

Marcone had promised to kill me, and a bullet from him was a better death than a pipe from a dollar store’s wall.

I waited, the taste of copper thick and hot and wet in my mouth. I waited, and still that gun pressed against my bruised forehead, a cold testament to the silent promise Marcone had been saying for years now: ‘I don’t want to waste such a valuable resource, but one day we’ll clash, and I’ll kill you.’

Cold and practical. As emotionless as the pipe in my side.

I waited, my thoughts dim and fuzzy in my aching brain. When nothing happened, I opened my eyes again. Marcone still stared at me. “You’re doing it wrong,” I whispered.

“So are you,” Marcone retorted instantly. “You’re supposed to fight me.”

Oh. I closed my eyes again. “I’m done fighting.”

The gun pressed against my skin for the rapid thud of several more heartbeats before vanishing. My eyes were still closed, so I didn’t expected the sudden jarring in my side. I gasped and opened my eyes again.

Marcone knelt beside me, examining the ruined pipe in my equally ruined side. “It’s already broken off,” he said, his voice oddly approving. He slipped off his jacket and bunched it against the pipe, using the sleeves to tie it loosely in place. I watched in morbid fascination.

Then the bastard went to my other side, slid an arm behind my back and under my knees, and hoisted me up.

Things went fuzzy for a minute, the pain in my side jumping from a low burn to a brushfire just like that. When things cleared again, my head rested on Marcone’s shoulder.

“Wha…?” I slurred.

“If you’re done fighting to the point you’re not fighting death,” Marcone pointed out reasonably, not missing a step walking through the broken street, “then working for me can’t be too bad.”

There was a lot wrong with that. When my lifeblood wasn’t seeping out of my side, I would point out what.

For now, I closed my eyes and rested my head on his shoulder.

John Marcone’s arms were warm and secure under me.

And I had said I was done fighting, after all.


End file.
